


The Sexual Inventory

by SincerelyChaos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus Fantasy, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Ficlet Collection, First Time, Indulgent Wanking, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Negotiations, Neurodiversity, Occasional Teenlock, Painplay, Public Display of Affection, Sexual Fantasy, Sexuality, Unsafe Sex, Virginity, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:18:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos
Summary: It's the talking about it that proves to be the hardest part.Negotiating items on The Sexual Inventory checklist - Johnlock style.Each ficlet is stand alone.





	1. Touch

**Author's Note:**

> While doing research for another fic, I stumbled onto an inventory list of things concerning relationships and sex that one can fill out and compare with one’s partner in order to learn each others preferences and limits. 
> 
> Clearly, Sherlock and John wouldn't make it that easy, but the list itself proved interesting, and so I began making up stories about their negotiations (or lack thereof) for some of the items on the list.
> 
> Each ficlet is standalone and takes its place in a slightly different verse, but several of them seem to have a bit of resemblance to the Floodgates' version of Sherlock and John.
> 
> Trigger warnings will be presented in the end notes of each ficlet that might require warnings.
> 
> The Sexual Inventory:  
> http://www.scarleteen.com/article/advice/yes_no_maybe_so_a_sexual_inventory_stocklist

 

 

It’s in the midst of a conversation, yet Sherlock fails to see it coming.

One minute they’re having a rather intense discussion about whether or not to take on a case that Sherlock finds too mundane but that John claims might be “worth the effort”, and the next minute, John’s hand is there, squeezing Sherlock’s forearm, his thumb stroking the inside of Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock’s words almost falters, because at first, he thinks it’s a determined grip, a way to physically drag him to the door and towards the case, but then the almost tender movement of John’s thumb registers, and Sherlock tries very hard to just keep talking, to ignore it all, because they don’t do _that_. They don’t touch much at all except when their bodies crash together and there are no breaks and no words, and they definitely don’t ever touch like… _that_.

John’s eyebrows raise a bit as if surprised by his own movements, and he looks away from Sherlock, his hand slowly withdrawing from Sherlock’s arm. 

The look on John’s face as their eyes meet again is almost defiant.

“Not good?” John asks neutrally, his spine straight and his face turned up, and Sherlock must admire him for doing that; for pretending that it doesn’t move him one bit whatever Sherlock’s answer might be.

Sherlock answers with a single glance, one that hopefully communicates that _this_ is not something they do, but more than that; _this_ is not something they talk about.

“Right,” John mumbles with an odd kind of smile, scratching the back of his head and doing that thing where he looks around in the room as if trying to spot the nearest escape route.

Sherlock almost wants to, then. Almost wants to–

But _that_ is not something they do.

 _That_ is simply not something that they can put down to impulses or urges, not the way they can with the occasional fucking or the odd, bruising kisses in-between ragged breaths.

John slowly nods, as if to himself, and then walks towards the kitchen.

That is something they always do; the not-talking-about-it.

It feels familiar, safe.

It’s what makes it possible to continue like this, Sherlock knows, and that’s all there is to it. Or at least, that’s all there ought to be to it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Item on the checklist illustrated; 
> 
> “A partner touching me affectionately without asking first”
> 
> Answer to current item - Sherlock  
> [ ] Y = Yes  
> [ ] N = No  
> [ ] M = Maybe  
>  **[X] IDK = I don't know**  
>  [ ] F = Fantasy  
> [ ] N/A = not applicable


	2. Military

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has warnings in the end note.

 

 

The problem had begun at Baskerville.

Before that, Sherlock had considered John’s military career to be useful in terms of the skills acquired and the addiction to adrenaline that it clearly suggested, but it had still been an abstract concept that was part of John's past.

At Baskerville, Sherlock had suddenly been made acutely aware of how John was still very much the soldier, which should have been obvious, but somehow it had managed to pass Sherlock by. That is until John pulled rank like it was something he still did ten times a day.

After that, the mere idea how Sherlock hadn't been consciously aware of this part of John’s identity almost every single moment they spent together seemed downright laughable.

  
“Fuck,” John pants as Sherlock’s hands works his trousers open.

To Sherlock, that word comes from the dirty mouth of a soldier that knows he’ll soon get off, not from a man in a sweater vest who just got home from work. 

 

  
“I need you. Naked. Right now.”

John’s words comes with a shaky smile, but Sherlock’s imagination disregards every trace of fondness behind the words, and what he instead hears is a firm command.

A command that Sherlock’s more than willing to obey.

 

  
“You really like that, don’t you?” John asks as Sherlock writhes and shivers as John’s fingers rub his nipples.

Objectively, the question sounds breathless and fascinated, like John is marvelling over being able to make Sherlock come apart like that. Still, that’s not how Sherlock wants it. What he wants to hear is a taunt, the condescending words of the commanding officer who is making good use of a new soldier, showing him that he needs to be useful in more ways than one in order to make it in the army.

_Would John ever–_

No.

Sherlock shouldn’t even think about– The army had almost cost John his life, and that part of John is not something to objectify, not something to imagine as John pushes into him like this or when firm hands hold Sherlock’s hip still and John fucks him steadily, teaching him just what he’s good for and–

With a groan, Sherlock comes with the mental image of John - not the lover, but the military man - on his mind.

His unwelcome fantasies fade as his breathing slows down and his body begins to feel limp and heavy from his orgasm. Sherlock opens his eyes, watching John’s face; sated and breathless and so open, even with his eyes closed.

John’s arm is flung across Sherlock’s hip, and they’re too warm for any more skin-to-skin contact than that, but John still wants to be close, he always does. The position means that Sherlock can’t see John’s scar, and he’s thankful for that, because as fascinating as it is, it’s also a visual reminder of how John’s life in the army was nothing but brutally real, nothing like Sherlock’s naive and sexualized fantasies about being sexually dominated, humiliated and used by the capt--

Shame isn’t something that Sherlock is particularly prone to, but when he thinks about the fact that he’s getting hard - that he gets so violently turned on - by the same part of John that makes John himself stifle his sobs in the early morning hours, Sherlock knows that it’s shame that burns in his face.

It's something he would never ask, something he can never tell--

There's a rustle of sheets, and John turns his face towards Sherlock, looking at him with a curious and almost amused smile.

“Did you just–” John begins and his eyes are still just a bit hazy and unfocused, but his voice is definitely teasing. “You do realise that you just called me ‘captain’ in the middle of me fucking you, don’t you?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: dubcon fantasies
> 
> Item on the checklist illustrated; 
> 
> “ _Some or all of a disability, identity or difference a partner has being made specifically made part of sex, sexualized or objectified”_. 
> 
>  
> 
> Answer to current item - Sherlock  
> [ ] Y = Yes  
> [ ] N = No  
>  **[X] M = Maybe**  
>  [ ] IDK = I don't know  
>  **[X] F = Fantasy**  
>  [ ] N/A = not applicable  
>  


	3. Smooth

 

 

The problem is skin-deep, quite literally. **  
**

Eyeing himself in the mirror, Sherlock thinks that he looks strangely out of place like this; standing in the middle of his room, naked, with his eyes focused on the reflection of his groin.

The hair there is coarse and a bit unevenly distributed, becoming rather sparse where it spreads out towards his stomach and thighs.

Sherlock knows that if he’s going to do something about the state of this particular area of his body, it'll have to be now, before John has seen him fully naked.

Judging by pace in which things are progressing, that doesn't leave much time.

( _Hands fumbling underneath untucked shirts, their kisses growing increasingly messy, uncoordinated, as John's erection presses against Sherlock's stomach--_ )

Three days top, likely less. And that's assuming there'll be a case or two.

Sherlock can feel his cock stir slightly. In the mirror, it still looks mostly flaccid where it rests against the dark brown patch of pubes, surrounded by the coarse hair.

If his pubic hair were to be slightly less spread out, the overall impression of his naked body would be more well put together, Sherlock gathers.

While he’s meticulous in his care of the exterior he uses as a shield to the outside world, Sherlock’s never seen the point of paying much attention to anything that’s hidden beneath his perfectly fitting bespoke clothing. It’s never seemed relevant.

Until now.

( _The look in John’s eyes as he pushes Sherlock’s fringe back, looking down at him wordlessly as the last traces of evening light filtered through the curtains, painting their skin with shifting lace patterns. Then John’s fingers, tracing Sherlock’s cheekbones, the outline of his lips, their chests moving in tandem as John’s breathing picks up._ )

Sherlock is aware that John finds him aesthetically pleasing. The past three weeks suggest that there’s also a strong element of sexual - or at least sensual - attraction involved.

The question is what John will think of this; of Sherlock’s naked body, stripped of its exclusive and flattering clothing.

Eyeing himself, his skin now developing goosebumps in the chilly air of the flat, Sherlock reckons that certain improvements might be possible.

However, the problem with any kind of adjustment to his appearance is that it needs to be consistent. If he starts shaving - or rather waxing, considering his easily irritated skin - he'll have to keep it up for as long as he and John continue… any kind of physical relationship. And while that may not be a very long time, given their admittedly rather modest odds of success in this regard, Sherlock wonders if he would be able to keep it up, especially during periods of intense casework. Tending to one’s pubic hair while there’s a case on would be… unthinkable. And yet, he wouldn’t want John to be faced with stubble, the visible evidence of Sherlock being the kind of man that took to remove parts of his pubic hair.

Because while body hair is something that society at large contributes to being male, the removal of said hair is something that’s seen as a decidedly female activity.

( _“Oh, don't try to blame it on the violin,” John protests, picking up his book again. “Keeping your nails short, sure, but don't try to tell me you need a bloody manicure to play the violin, even if that thing is as poncy as you.”_ )

It's a well-established fact that John finds Sherlock’s grooming habits a bit obsessive, but what Sherlock hasn't been able to establish yet is whether John is “taking the piss” or if it would actually bother him to be involved with someone who might be regarded as… _poncy_.

Not that anyone save John would actually have to know. If Sherlock keeps things up, John might not even notice.

If John’s to spend time looking at Sherlock’s naked body, then Sherlock assumes that he too will see it more often, and with other eyes. And admittedly, Sherlock appreciates symmetry and neatness in every other aspect of his appearance. Why would this be the exception?

Shivering, Sherlock grabs the sheet from his bed, wrapping it around himself before he grabs his phone from the nightstand.

No texts from Lestrade, but one from John, asking him if he wants sushi or Chinese for the evening.

Ignoring John’s text, Sherlock finds the number he’s looking for and fires off a text, requesting an appointment for later in the afternoon, before John’s shift ends.

It’s starting to look like things might progress more rapidly than he’d anticipated, and Sherlock has always been one for seeing to every eventuality.

 

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the follwing item of [**The Sexual Inventory**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.scarleteen.com%2Farticle%2Fadvice%2Fyes_no_maybe_so_a_sexual_inventory_stocklist&t=NGRhODQyMGU5NmU5MzYwNjhiZGJjYmFiNTQ3M2I2YTZkMDRkMmY3YixWYkR4d2lvdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AlZpDPmWJtjRW3AsecDP2Ag&p=https%3A%2F%2Fsincerely-chaos.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158236606396%2Fmilitary-the-sexual-inventory&m=1): _“Shaving/trimming/removing my own pubic hair”_
> 
> Answer to current item - Sherlock  
>  **[X] Y = Yes**  
>  [ ] N = No  
> [ ] M = Maybe  
> [ ] IDK = I don't know  
> [ ] F = Fantasy  
> [ ] N/A = not applicable


	4. Risks

 

This is a very bad idea.

With his lips around Sherlock’s cock and with Sherlock's stifled moans resonating in his ears, John is aware that he really ought to know better.

He ought to, but having Sherlock like this, such notions seems peripheral.

Sherlock's hands are not in John's hair to hold him there, and John isn't sure whether it's misdirected consideration or simply an attempt to keep his balance that makes Sherlock cling to the wall instead of clinging to the man sucking him off.

There’s a lot he doesn’t know about Sherlock in this regard. A lot they don’t know about each other, and that’s why it really should--

“Fuck,” Sherlock groans, momentarily side-tracking John’s thoughts, causing a shiver down John's spine.

It’s difficult, to say the least, to think straight when your entire mind is focused on swallowing down a cock for the second time in your life, yet part of John’s brain still insists that he turns at least a fraction of his hazy attention to this one thing; for all his sexual experience and for all his medical training (not to mention some of the things he's seen at his work as a doctor), John is yet to bring up the discussion about condoms.

It's a discussion that's well past its due-date, seeing how they’re already exchanging bodily fluids on a semi-regular basis.

John ought to know better. He should have asked about testing and previous experiences and he ought to have mentioned being clean himself before things progressed as far as oral sex. It’s fucking fundamental in terms of sexual relationships. They really need to have that conversation before things go even further, before they end up having--

No. He urges himself not to think about that, not to think about pushing his fingers inside, feeling how tight it when he'll--

John whimpers at the thought, feeling the pressure building up inside of him, and he gasps, or at least his body attempts to, but since his mouth is full he ends up gagging instead, his eyes tearing up as he tries to breathe through his nose. Getting his breathing and his rhythm back, John thinks that it’s too much, all of this.

He shouldn't assume that there will be a ‘next time’ - they haven't even talked about any of this, and that’s the thing, really, that’s what makes this so--

His left hand is now working frantically on his own cock, and John finds it increasingly simple to let go of any thoughts about the future. In fact, he finds himself almost unable to think at all.

It is, in short, blissful.

And when John comes, it’s with the bitter taste of come already on his tongue, and it feels almost like tasting his own orgasm as he thrusts into his own hand one final time before slumping down, leaning with a hand against the floor.

As his mind comes back online, he opens his eyes to see that Sherlock’s already zipped himself up and is now picking up two empty, unwashed mugs, heading towards the sink without a single glance in John’s direction.

In the bathroom, washing the semen off his hands and the mix of tears and saliva off his face, John acknowledges one simple truth.

They can't discuss condoms, can't talk about next time, because that would mean acknowledging that there might _be_ a next time.

It’s downright stupid - disregarding all common sense and safety - but it doesn’t change the the facts; in the end, John would rather take all the risks of unsafe sex than taking the single risk of putting anything about this into words. It would mean breaking the thin ice that they’re both doing their best pretending not to walk on, and they might enjoy risks, but there are risks not even they are willing to take.

Without plausible deniability, this would run the risk of becoming far too real.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the follwing item of [**The Sexual Inventory**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.scarleteen.com%2Farticle%2Fadvice%2Fyes_no_maybe_so_a_sexual_inventory_stocklist&t=NGRhODQyMGU5NmU5MzYwNjhiZGJjYmFiNTQ3M2I2YTZkMDRkMmY3YixWYkR4d2lvdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AlZpDPmWJtjRW3AsecDP2Ag&p=https%3A%2F%2Fsincerely-chaos.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158236606396%2Fmilitary-the-sexual-inventory&m=1):  _“Doing anything sexual which does or might pose risks of certain or all sexually transmitted infections (STIs)”_
> 
>  
> 
> Answer to current item - John  
>  **[X] Y = Yes**  
>  **[X] N = No**  
>  [ ] M = Maybe  
>  **[X] IDK = I don't know**  
>  [ ] F = Fantasy  
> [ ] N/A = not applicable


	5. Misfiring

 

_They had negotiated this._

John’s steady breathing against his scapula.The burning- _stinging_ -sharp sensation on his scalp as curls are pulled and his head is angled, his neck exposed.

The breaths shift, moving over scapula to ghost over neck tendons - either a foreshadowing or a distraction.

John’s mouth is close enough for lips to grace skin, John’s body a solid living pressure behind him, the door a static lifeless pressure before him.

Trapped. Held. _Restrained._

 _Black leather_ -stainless steel- _raw edges_ encircling his wrists, nylon rope forcing his cuffed arms up against the top of the door frame.

_Exposed._

John’s tracing Sherlock’s every cervical vertebrae with his breath-lips- _teeth._

A bite almost breaks the skin next to the base of his skull and a breath is held far too long before it’s let out.

Teeth moving down his his neck, scraping skin - alternating the breaking of subcutaneous blood vessels with the almost-breaking of the skin covering his spine.

 _Spinal cord;_ the connection between his central and his peripheral nervous system. Between his nerves signalling sensory input and his brain registering and interpreting the sensations.

Interpreting - _misinterpreting;_

As John’s mouth withdraws from Sherlock’s now raw skin, the remaining pain is interpreted as warmth, and when warm fingers trail the path left by John’s teeth, the sensation registers as pain.

And when the metal shifts, sharp pins sends sparks into overstimulated nerve endings.The wheel moves slowly as pin after pin after pin after pin ignites the nerve endings beneath his skin, pinwheel sparks travelling like meteorites through the nerves of his spinal cord.

They had negotiated the pain, and the sex, but as neuron after neuron starts to glow underneath his skin, Sherlock knows that there’s one thing they’d failed to negotiate.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that his brain would misinterpret other things than pain.

_(After all, neurological defects shouldn’t cause something that feels far more like a chemical defect.)_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the follwing item of [**The Sexual Inventory**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.scarleteen.com%2Farticle%2Fadvice%2Fyes_no_maybe_so_a_sexual_inventory_stocklist&t=NGRhODQyMGU5NmU5MzYwNjhiZGJjYmFiNTQ3M2I2YTZkMDRkMmY3YixWYkR4d2lvdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AlZpDPmWJtjRW3AsecDP2Ag&p=https%3A%2F%2Fsincerely-chaos.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158236606396%2Fmilitary-the-sexual-inventory&m=1):  _“ **Experiencing** or expressing **unexpected** or **challenging** emotions before, during or after sex”_
> 
>  
> 
> Answer to current item - Sherlock  
> [ ] Y = Yes  
>  **[X] N = No**  
>  **[X] M = Maybe**  
>  [ ] IDK = I don't know  
> [ ] F = Fantasy  
> [ ] N/A = not applicable


	6. Unspoken

 

 

It's shockingly intimate, John thinks, allowing his fingers to drift over Sherlock's neck, down to his slightly hunched shoulders and back up again.

Sherlock's forehead is touching John's, their breaths diffusing in the space between them, the air they inhale already warmed by someone else's lungs.

It's shocking, John thinks, but not as shocking as it ought to be.

There'd been kissing; fumbling, tender, intense and then downright desperate kissing. Now there is this; the unexpected intimacy of physical proximity without the urgency of kissing.

When Sherlock's hands starts to wander from John's face to John's pectorals and then down to his waist, John finds himself keeping perfectly still, for there's something in Sherlock's tentative movements that make John realise that this is not like the kissing.

This is not the push-pull or give-take of their mouths and lips that John hadn't even allowed himself to fully consider until just half an hour ago, when their faces had met, slowly, the angle all wrong and the timing strange but sensation soon making all those details peripheral. No, this isn't like that at all.

All John can hear is the sound of ragged breathing. Theirs. Together.

When John opens his eyes, he can see long fingers stroke down the side of his shirt-clad waist, feeling Sherlock's breath pause to swallow.

This isn't like kissing, because when John lets his own hands drift down from Sherlock's neck, down his shoulder blades, Sherlock pauses his slow exploring, letting out his breath, and John stills, understanding.

This isn't like the kissing.

As Sherlock's hands reach John's belt, they hesitate, and John thinks that perhaps he ought to do something, to reciprocate, but no; that's not what Sherlock is asking.

What it is; an unspoken request for John's permission.

For once, Sherlock's giving John time to protest. Time to turn his head away, to deflect, to laugh nervously and disentangle himself from this.  

When John does none of those things, fingers start to work on John's belt, then his button and zip.

Breathing. More heavily now. John can feel each exhale in the air between them. He can see Sherlock's hands pause again, then, taking in the silence, they start pulling trousers and pants down.

A shallow, sharp breath from John as he feels the air against his half-hard cock. A breath held, and then slowly let out against John's cheek as Sherlock looks, seeing John grow harder.

They're both watching. Sherlock must know that John is watching as fingers slides up his hips and then a hand is enclosing around John's cock, and it looks strange there; Sherlock's hand being _there_ , of all places. Closing his eyes for a moment, John feels dizzy from all the reused air he's breathing in and from the feeling of a hand testing his reactions to its every movement.

And that in itself isn't shocking at all.

Of course Sherlock would experiment with touch as well as with everything else. No, what's surprising is _how_ Sherlock's doing it.

He can't see Sherlock's face and Sherlock can't see his, but he can feel Sherlock's pulse through the fingers that are woven together behind Sherlock's neck and in them he can also feel every swallow, every breath held.

Sherlock is stroking him firmer, his other hand moving over John's iliac crest and over John's hip, holding, rubbing. It's hard to remain still for Sherlock, not to thrust into Sherlock's hand, not to writhe or try to find something to lean back against.

It's impossible to stay silent, however, and John's grunts and the increasingly wet sound from Sherlock's hand now twisting slightly on John's cock seem to echo in between their bodies.

It occurs to John to tell Sherlock that he's close, getting closer, almost there-- but he doesn't, instead allowing his body to tense up and his moans to grow louder, telling Sherlock, wordlessly, that this will soon be over, will soon--

John comes, his eyes now tightly closed, his body unable to keep itself for thrusting just a bit into Sherlock's hand, and John is glad that Sherlock can't see his face, not then, not when it's scrunched up from holding back the cursing, the violent shivers.

When he opens his eyes again, what he sees is his now slowly softening cock still in Sherlock's hand, Sherlock's palm now smeared with come.

The hand that had been stroking John's hip, up the small of his back, has stilled. Now it's merely a pressure, keeping them from drifting apart, but light enough for John to break away from at any time.

And as John gives in to exhaustion, letting his forehead come down to rest against Sherlock's shoulder for a few breaths before gathering the strength to take a step back, to allow their eyes to meet, that's what he'll remember as the only truly shocking thing in all of this.

The strange, tentative unspoken question behind Sherlock's every pause.

_(Is this-- Will you let me--?)_

And then another surprise which shouldn't feel as one; John's own wordless answer. 

 _(Yeah, alright, let's-- You can--_ Yes _.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the follwing item of [**The Sexual Inventory**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.scarleteen.com%2Farticle%2Fadvice%2Fyes_no_maybe_so_a_sexual_inventory_stocklist&t=NGRhODQyMGU5NmU5MzYwNjhiZGJjYmFiNTQ3M2I2YTZkMDRkMmY3YixWYkR4d2lvdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AlZpDPmWJtjRW3AsecDP2Ag&p=https%3A%2F%2Fsincerely-chaos.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158236606396%2Fmilitary-the-sexual-inventory&m=1):  _“ **Manual sex (hands or fingers on penis or strap-on), receiving”**_ ****
> 
> Answer to current item - John  
>  **[X] Y = Yes**  
>  [ ] N = No  
> [ ] M = Maybe  
> [ ] IDK = I don't know  
> [ ] F = Fantasy  
> [ ] N/A = not applicable


	7. Flood

 

 

The sheets in his bed are starting to feel like sandpaper against his bare skin, and Sherlock twists, the fabric tangling around his body.

This won’t do. He’s not that aroused, not yet, but there are measures that need to be taken.

Routines.

Sherlock prefers to think of them as ‘rituals’, because that implies something that's more of a conscious choice and slightly less mundane than the word ‘routines’ would imply. He has quite a few of them; like how he always arrange the slides to his microscope, the way he'll always put his socks on last when getting dressed or how he will usually indulge his body’s urges when he finds himself in need of sleep but his brain is disinclined to slow down enough for him to relax.

Like tonight. The case being finished and Sherlock not having slept for two days, he knows it will be one of those nights.

With nothing to do but to lie in bed and wait for the sleep that so often eludes him, Sherlock might as well make use of that time to produce a neurochemical response that has proven to be beneficial to his onset of sleep. After all, Sherlock’s always been partial to anything that will allow him to manipulate his own brain chemistry.

Pushing the duvet aside, Sherlock shivers as the slightly chilly night air hits his skin, feeling his more than half-hard cock twitch.

It’s part of the ritual. The sensory contrasts, the different sensations created by every movement. It all works to his advantage. The most expedient part of having senses that are tuned up to eleven; being able to make use of it in order to drown out his mind.

In the gloaming light seeping in from the window, Sherlock watches as his cock is slowly filling up, becoming fully engorged. It's a conditioned response of sorts. He doesn’t need to touch himself yet - his body has learnt to recognise what’s about to come.

Sherlock leans over to reach for the bedside drawer, his fingers finding the objects he’s searching for without any visual guidance. Conveniently kept in the corner of the drawer, the objects in questions are easy to locate. Putting them next to his pillow, Sherlock finally lets his hand wander, first tracing down the side of his neck, then slowly stroking his way down until his fingers are halfway down his pectoral. There, his motions change - fingers now skimming over the skin surrounding his right nipple, circling but never quite touching it.

He always does it the same way during the nights. On mornings, afternoons or evenings, Sherlock will sometimes experiment, engage in his fantasies or try to push his own limits. Sherlock has never denied himself to indulge neither his sexuality nor his curiosity. But curiosity is not something for night time. The night is for the predictability of rituals. 

It’s not skin, but metal, that finally makes contact with his nipple.

The teeth of the clamp are cool against his skin, biting into it and making him bite his lip, focusing on not making a sound.

Silence. It’s the one adaptation he’s allowed himself to make in this particular ritual. Otherwise, he’s kept the ritual intact for several years. Biting back his sounds, however, had seemed a reasonable adjustment to make once he acquired a flatmate.

Since John moved in, Sherlock will always come soundlessly, except on those recent occasions when he’d come with John still moving inside of him.

That’s nothing he wants to think about now, though. Now, his mind is focused on the burning pain of his nipple and on the hand that’s now moving lower, closer to where his thighs are spreading, exposing more of him to the cold air.

His mind is replaying fantasies that he’s used and reused over and over again for years. They’re simple, but effective. Nothing that will keep his mind buzzing and awake after he’s finished.

Spreading his thighs further, Sherlock’s hand strokes up the muscles, moving closer to where he wants to feel it. Ghosting over his crack, moving up over his perineum, his fingers settles on his sack, and he rolls his balls; nudging, pulling.

With his left hand, Sherlock finds the other clamp. Abandoning his testicles, he slides his fingers up and down his cleft, pushing just slightly against his arsehole and feeling the ache in his cock intensify.

The same moment he finally takes himself in hand he lets the second clamp close around his nipple. The twin sensation is such a mix of pain and relief that it’s hard to tell them apart.

Sherlock turns his face into the pillow for just a few seconds, muffling the sounds he can’t help making at this point.

On the floor above him, John has already been asleep for hours. Still, Sherlock will remain quiet.

John knows what he sounds like. 

For four weeks, John has known what sounds Sherlock will make when he’s coming with John’s hands on his body and John’s breath against his neck.

It doesn’t compare to this. Where their encounters are wordless but not silent, this is soundless but pronounced. Sherlock knows what this is, is in control of how and when.

And now, Sherlock’s body shivers as he slides one hand up and down his cock while the other hand is moving down his chest and stroking over his skin, the movement making the now somewhat dulled pain from the clamps on his skin flare up again and it burns hot against the chilly air as his body writhes.

The endorphins in his bloodstream makes everything seem just a bit distanced, everything except the burn on his nipples and the friction against his erection as he thrusts into his own hand, the rhythmic movements making his bed creak ever so slightly in a most satisfying way.

He’s close, so very close, and feeling his orgasm approach, Sherlock spreads his legs further, his free hand pulling roughly at his balls, and then, it starts, it grows inside of him until he reaches that tipping point where everything becomes frantic movements and a heady, heavy rush of sex chemicals, his body working its way through the orgasm and his mind going almost blank, and finally, finally--

Sherlock’s hand slumps down onto the sheet beside him, covered in semen shaking from exhaustion and orgasm.

Everything’s spinning, just a bit, and it’s with fumbling movements that he managed to dislodge the clamps, hissing as the pain is renewed as circulation is no longer partially obstructed by the pressure of the metal teeth. 

It’s quiet, in his mind, and he can’t hear much beside his own breathing and his own pulse, but he knows that the flat is quiet too, and for a few hours, that’s how things will be allowed to remain.

Giving his hand and his cock a hasty wipe with a cloth, Sherlock rolls over to his side, pulling the duvet up behind himself, ready to grab when he’s sleeping body will have cooled down enough to need it.

He stays on his side, his legs pulled halfway up to his stomach, his hands resting in front of his face, feeling every exhale as his breathing slows down.

It’s a ritual, this too. A ritual of taking the same position every time he goes to sleep after having flooded his entire bloodstream with chemicals that will finally allow him to do so. A ritual that means that he’s often able to manage sleep on his own, without any extraneous chemical aids, even when his insomnia is at its worse.

But most of all, it’s a ritual of allowing himself to be enough. Enough for his own needs, however random or insistent they might be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I like to call "indulgent wanking". 
> 
> It may or may not be one of my own new indulgences; writing the opposite of sad wanking.
> 
> Based on the follwing item of [**The Sexual Inventory**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.scarleteen.com%2Farticle%2Fadvice%2Fyes_no_maybe_so_a_sexual_inventory_stocklist&t=NGRhODQyMGU5NmU5MzYwNjhiZGJjYmFiNTQ3M2I2YTZkMDRkMmY3YixWYkR4d2lvdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AlZpDPmWJtjRW3AsecDP2Ag&p=https%3A%2F%2Fsincerely-chaos.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158236606396%2Fmilitary-the-sexual-inventory&m=1): _“ ** **Ejaculating, alone** ”**_ ****
> 
> Answer to current item - Sherlock  
>  **[X] Y = Yes**  
>  [ ] N = No  
> [ ] M = Maybe  
> [ ] IDK = I don’t know  
> [ ] F = Fantasy  
> [ ] N/A = not applicable __  
> 


	8. Hand

Sherlock is using his right hand to hold his phone, using his thumb to scroll through the text he's reading.

His left hand, however, is resting on the empty space on the seat between them.

Resting.

( _Waiting_?)

The case is over, and as they left the Yard, Sherlock had made no secret of how dull he had found the whole thing.

The slump in his shoulders and the way he pokes at his phone instead of preening and explaining his deductions right now tells John all he needs to know about Sherlock's state of mind.

It hadn't been one of those cases that ended with a narrow escape from death. No, it had ended with a few insults from the arrested accountant followed by an hour of paperwork, so John finds that he can't blame any residual adrenaline for the action he’s currently considering.

(Why now?)

Sherlock's hand is still on the empty seat between them.

John's hands are resting flat against his own thighs, and he can feel the texture of worn denim against his palms.

(Would it be any different if--?)

From the corner of his eye, John glances at Sherlock, who is radiating frustration in a low-key way that means that he's trying not to sulk. He will do that occasionally these days; attempts to regulate at least some parts of his mood.

In the space and silence between the two of them, John's hand slowly starts shift, settling on the cheap, fake leather of the seat.

(Inviting? Offering?)

Sherlock is absently running the side of his thumb over his fingernails. It's one of the dozen or so small ways in which John can tell that Sherlock is anxious, or at least his own, restless version thereof.

(Anticipation? An unspoken request for--)

John tries to shake his head clear of that trail of thought. The movement earns him a sideways glance from Sherlock, who then promptly returns his full attention to his phone.

It's been three months. Three months, and while they'll now share both Sherlock's bed and have confessed to certain mutual affections, they are yet to put what they are to each other into words.

They know what this is.

( _Love_.)

John just isn't sure what it makes them.

( _Lovers_?)

If it had been any of the people John had dated in the past, he would have known the protocol for this kind of thing.

For Sherlock, protocols are something that you burn to start a fire in the hearth.

(Is it still “dating” when you already share lives?)

As Sherlock puts his phone away and proceeds to stare pointedly out of the cab window, John decides to do what Sherlock would do.

Experiment.

With a movement that's far more assertive than he himself is, John slides his hand over the six inches that separate his hand from Sherlock's.

His palm finds another palm and as he lets his fingers close around Sherlock's hand, Sherlock doesn't flinch, doesn't even avert his eyes from the window and it is a strange sensation, sitting there in broad daylight, holding the hand of a man who John has only ever seen doing anything affectionate within the confines of their flat.

(Is this what they are now?)

John tries to grasp it, to fully take it in; the feeling of Sherlock’s hand against his own, not clasped together between the rumpled sheets of Sherlock’s bed late at night, but at the back of a London cab on a busy street at 5.27 pm.

(It's slightly thrilling, in all its unsettling sense of displacement.)

A few heartbeats pass by, then there's a squeeze from Sherlock's hand, before said hand slowly pulls away from John's.

Returning to idleness. 

(Apparently, whatever they are, they don’t do _that_.)

 Wondering if Sherlock’s watching him out of the corner of his eye, or if this had been something too mundane to even grant a hint of Sherlock’s attention, John turns his face even further to the side, trying to focus on the streets passing outside the window.

(It shouldn’t feel like this. Relief should not be part of what makes shame burn on his face.)

As the cab pulls over to the side of the road and Sherlock, for once, pays the driver, John gets out, grabbing his key and unlocking the front door. Half a minute later, he can hear Sherlock’s steps on the staircase, can watch his friend take off his coat and head straight for his violin.

As the sounds of Sherlock tuning his violin fills the flat, John is reluctant to acknowledge that nothing’s changed within the last ten minutes.

Nothing’s changed, for what he had tried to do, what he found himself almost compulsively grasping for in the backseat of the cab, was never fundamental to what they are - whatever _that_ is - or even to what they may already be on the way of becoming.

John’ll just have to keep searching for another reference, another framework that better fits the strange, abstract and all-absorbing mess that the two of them make.

 (This simply won’t fit into any frame he’s ever used before.)

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the follwing item of [**The Sexual Inventory**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.scarleteen.com%2Farticle%2Fadvice%2Fyes_no_maybe_so_a_sexual_inventory_stocklist&t=NGRhODQyMGU5NmU5MzYwNjhiZGJjYmFiNTQ3M2I2YTZkMDRkMmY3YixWYkR4d2lvdQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AlZpDPmWJtjRW3AsecDP2Ag&p=https%3A%2F%2Fsincerely-chaos.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F158236606396%2Fmilitary-the-sexual-inventory&m=1): _“ ** **Holding hands** ”**_ ****
> 
> Answer to current item - John  
>  [ ] Y = Yes  
>  **[X] N = No**  
>  [ ] M = Maybe  
> [ ] IDK = I don’t know  
> [ ] F = Fantasy  
> [ ] N/A = not applicable _  
> _


	9. Geography

He meets her eyes across the room, and John thinks that perhaps, if he went over there with some awkward excuse and an unassuming smile, she might look a bit less tense and speak to him, perhaps eventually let him buy her a glass of wine.

Hypothetically.

The background music is unmistakable hotel lounge music, and she is at one of the window tables, alone, occasionally tapping away at her phone and John is exhausted but too worked up to go up to the hotel room just yet. Instead, he's nursing a beer whilst sorting through the events of today, thinking about the woman by the window. It'd be interesting, he thinks, to know what she'd look like with her hair let down, falling all over the pristine blue duvet of the hotel bed. He thinks it might be a compelling image. Very much so.

It's just an idea, after all.

Another interesting idea would be learning what she looks like when she's too far gone in pleasure to care about such fleeting things as her own facial expression. She has a responsive face, that much is obvious after having watched her features shift as she reads on her phone.

Would she be just as responsive vocally? Gasp and moan and make breathless demands like ‘ _deeper_ ’, ‘ _more_ **\--** _just there, fuck yes!_ ’ and ‘ _now, your fingers, no; just circle them a bit first, then--_ ’?

John squirms a bit on his seat, feeling himself respond to the thought of long fingers hesitantly pushing her panties aside. _Right, get a grip, Watson_ , he thinks, knowing damn well that no one is going to do anything to help him with his current-- situation tonight.

The case has been going on for five days now, and he hasn't had as much as a wank for almost a week. No wonder whatever fantasies he has are becoming a bit more… insistent.

A few more minutes, then he'll be off, going up to the hotel room on the third floor and find Sherlock, who's most likely still going over all the old newspaper articles they'd found. A few more minutes to think about the... possibilities. In a purely hypothetically way, of course.

John wonders if Sherlock would find the woman attractive. Sherlock is pretty much a solid six on the Kinsey scale, having only ever been attracted to men as far as John knows, but he also knows that Sherlock is someone who isn't in any way blind for aesthetic value or beauty. It ought to be a fairly easy deduction for anyone who's seen his wardrobe or all his old lithographs, really.

One more minute to allow himself to gather some inspiration for when he'll rub one out in the shower later, then John'll be on his way. One more minute to consider whether or not the woman would prefer lying down or if she'd rather be sitting on the edge of the hotel room arm chair, leaning back and watching the man who's on his knees in front of her, _licking_ -sucking- _fucking_ her just so. Yes, she'd favour the chair, would love being able to look down at head moving between her spread thighs, discovering what will make her--

John swallows, knowing he should probably leave now. Sitting there half hard and alone at a table in a hotel lounge is not exactly-- well.

Taking one last look at the way her breasts are vaguely outlined under her oversized blouse, John tries to save away that mental image. It'll help when he imagines how the small breasts will fall slightly to the sides as she arches her back in the chair as full lips move over her labia and a sharp tongue licks explorative into her cunt, eager to learn the anatomy of her body. Yes. He'd be eager to learn, because John would be there, would guide him through it, sitting in the chair opposite, watching, instructing--

Getting up from the table, John bunches up the jacket he'd put beside him on the seat, folding it over his arm and letting it obscure what's most likely a fairly visible bulge. He heads to the stairwell, taking the stairs slowly as he thinks about how it would feel to once again get to teach such a brilliant man something, see him slightly out of his depths, looking up at John, waiting for instructions as he kneels in front of the woman John just picked up at the lounge and brought back to their room.

He wants to see how Sherlock looks when he gets that wrinkle between his eyebrows, fully focused at the task at hand, at mastering this new skill and bring as much pleasure as possible to the first woman he's ever-- Oh. Yes. Sherlock is always a marvel, but if John had to pick one thing he likes to watch Sherlock do the most, that'd be when he puts all his brilliance into learning something new, his control over his movements so perfect and his entire mind engaged, every sense heightened. Watching Sherlock’s eyes be both hazy and entirely focused on John's body when he first learned just what made John throw his head back and gasp, learn what made him forgive almost any rudeness or stunt or-- _yes_. That'd been one of the most arousing things John had ever witnessed.

John had never been with a man before, but Sherlock hadn't been with anyone at all, and that had been far more of a thrill than it had any right to be.

And now John wants to lick into Sherlock's mouth after having instructed his lover each step of the way, directing him through his very first time performing cunilingus. He imagines her; sated, slumped back in the chair, idly watching John taste her on Sherlock's lips, giving him something - rewarding him - for being such a quick study, for being willing to work so hard simply to--

It would be yet one more thing that he could teach - could share - with the man who learned the geography of John by heart, learnt it like it was the only thing truly worth learning.

  
John takes a steadying breath, holds onto the wall by the stairs for a moment before he takes the last few steps. 

Right. He'll make do with a shower.

For tonight. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Item on the checklist illustrated; 
> 
> “Sex of some kind(s) with two partners at a time"
> 
> Answer to current item - John  
>  **[X] = Yes **  
> ****  
> [ ] = No  
>  [ ] = Maybe  
> [ ] = I don't know  
>  **[X] = Fantasy**  
>  [ ] = Not Applicable


	10. Drain

**  
**“You need a new razor,” comes a hoarse voice from the door. **  
**

John hadn't heard the door open. Perhaps he hadn't properly closed it. There really was no need, since Sherlock always knew when John was in there anyway. When Sherlock feels like barging in and start asking absurd questions, the bathroom door being demonstratively shut has never seemed to prevent him from doing so.

With movements that are far too well-coordinated for someone who's voice sounds like he's only just woke up, Sherlock places a half empty coffee cup on the edge of the bathtub and quickly proceeds to pull his t-shirt off before leaning down to wash his face in the basin, bumping into John and forcing him to step aside in the process.

There’s a faint smell of sweat coming from Sherlock, and his pyjamas seems to have been put on in a haste.

“Hey, watch it,” John mutters, and it comes out sounding strangely normal, like John wasn’t the least bit taken aback by the sudden flurry of morning rituals that are now apparently taking place at the same time and at the same space as John’s.

Sherlock could at least have poured him a cup as well, at least considering that it was John who had put the coffee maker on, and what's Sherlock even doing being awake at this hour anyway--

“Case,” Sherlock says, his voice muffled by the towel he's using to carefully dry his face. “Lestrade texted.”

“Oh, you need me to--”

“Obviously.”

“Right, just let me have my coffee first,” John says, trying to concentrate on finishing his shave without risking any cuts due to any sudden movements from Sherlock. He really shouldn't have to put up with this at this hour, and especially given that--

Heck, John isn’t ready for this. He’s not ready for any of it, but especially not for this:

Sherlock, standing beside him in front of the bathroom mirror is currently applying his deodorant, filling the room with a poncy smell of something that reminds John vaguely of some kind of wood. Sherlock, actually using the bathroom for some of its intended uses while John is there. Sherlock, acting like this is nothing out of the ordinary.

John is used to being questioned, verbally harassed and summoned when shaving, brushing his teeth, putting product in his hair or even clipping his nails, but this--

This special kind of... _domesticity_  is definitely not something he’s used to.

Right now, he’s not even sure if he wants to get used to it. At all. Ever.

(This is how relationships slowly die, and until a few minutes ago, John hadn’t even been sure if they were even in a relationship. Fuck, he still doesn’t know if they’re in a relationship.)

“Kidnapping. What do you know about custody laws?”

John just shakes his head before finishing the area above his lip and finally rinsing the razor under the tap, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as he starts to squeeze hair potion into his curls, his long fingers separating individual ringlets with practised precision.

Then, after having taken one last look in the mirror and adjusted a few stray curls, Sherlock picks up his toothbrush and starts looking for the toothpaste.

John tries to ignore him, tries to ignore the naked chest and the exclusive smells and the way Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms are hanging low on his hips, but it’s not an easy thing to do, ignoring another person when you’re both moving about inside a 35 square feet space.

So it's come to this.

John’s enjoyed the making out far more than anyone with an ongoing sexuality crisis ought to, he really has. He’s also started to accept that the increasingly frequent shagging with his best friend is no longer something that can be blamed solely on alcohol or adrenaline, and he’s even gone as far as to admitting - if only ever to himself - that he might just have been a bit in love with the sod for several months. John’s slowly begun to accept all that, learned to live with it, but this--

Right now, John doesn’t really care if they’re in some sort of romantic relationship or not; this is just not on.

John might be able to withstand far more than any sane man ever would in this - whatever this is - but having to watch the man he’s perhaps in some kind of sexual or romantic entanglement with putting on deoderant and brush his teeth is apparently where John draws the line.

Putting aside his razor, John grabs a towel and dries his face with resolute movements before he heads up to his own room to get dressed, leaving Sherlock there with his toothbrush in his mouth and traces of sleep still on his face.

From now on, John will simply have to lock the bathroom door regardless of what he’s doing in there, because fuck it; regardless of what people might imply, they are not some kind of married couple that’s been together for twenty years.

It really shouldn’t be to much to ask of someone not to drain all the mystery out of the relationship before it even become a proper relationship, damn it.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Item on the checklist that’s illustrated; “ **A partner grooming/using the toilet in front of me”**
> 
> Answer to current item - John  
> [   ]  = Yes  
>  **[X]  = No**  
>  [   ]  = Maybe  
> [   ]  = I don't know  
> [   ]  = Fantasy  
> [   ]  = Not Applicable


	11. January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this one is a teenlock one.

**  
**It’s almost 2 am, the party that had been thrown together by the medical students at one of the smaller clubs down by Cherwell is reaching its peak at the exact same time as John is reaching his limit. **  
**

All around him, his fellow med students are dancing, talking and consuming far more ethanol than anyone who has studied a liver with cirrhosis should be able to stomach. Everyone, it seems, except John’s own date for the evening, who has just thrown a tantrum worthy of a four year old on a particularly bad sugar high in front of a dozen of John’s friends only to suddenly disappear towards to the main club downstairs, where John is now trying to locate the complete arse.

Really, if Sherlock didn’t want to be here, he could have just said so, but no, he had to get himself thoroughly pissed without John even noticing him actually drinking and then there’d been several things happening at once and out of nowhere, Sherlock had just begun yelling, raging at everyone and--

John rubs his hand over his face, his eyes scanning the crowded room for the lanky, histrionic git that John had almost worked up the guts to introduce as his boyfriend in case anyone would ask. No one had asked, and considering how the evening had turned out, that was probably for the best.

“Fucking piece of--” John mutters to himself, and whatever he’d been about to say would probably not even rank in the top ten worst things he’s ever called Sherlock, which is pretty impressive considering that they’ve only been sleeping together for two months.

John is just about to head into the next room, where the dancefloor is, when he spots someone sitting in the narrow corridor leading to the staff area by the door.

Fuck.

In a few strides, John makes it across the room and crouches down by the tense, curled up form on the dirty, tiled floor. It only takes a few seconds for him to conclude that he’s neither injured or severely inebriated. He should have felt relief at that, but instead it only makes his anger intensify, because this really isn’t the time or the place, but he should have known that bound to happen one day.

“What,” John says with a voice that’s both as cold and as steady as an iceberg, “have you taken?”

Sherlock looks up then, and John takes one look at his unfocused eyes and his clenched jaw and suddenly, something makes him want to get Sherlock out of here and away from all the people and the noise, because as much of an arse as he’s been, he looks like he might be on the verge of imploding, and John does not want to clean up one more mess caused by a very destructive chemistry student tonight.

In the freezing air outside, Sherlock seems to regain some of his coordination and manages to walk almost without John’s support until they reach a bench as far away from the party as they can get without actually leaving the area.

“Either you’re losing your marbles or you’ve managed to get yourself spectacularly high, and I’m very interested to know which one it is, Sherlock,” John says, gritting his teeth and hoping for the former rather than the latter, given what he’s managed to piece together about Sherlock’s life before Oxford during the six months they’ve known each other.

Sherlock looks at him without any sign of reaction, and perhaps it’d look like he was completely unruffled by it all if it hadn’t been for the way he was blinking excessively, seemingly struggling to get his eyes to focus.

John rubs his hands over his arms, trying to keep some warmth in his body in the freezing January night. Sherlock, on the other hand, doesn't even seem to notice the cold, sitting there like some kind of statue next to John on the bench.

The sounds emerging from the club about thirty feet away from where they're sitting are strangely muted by the cold, crisp air, but still there's dozens of people hanging out around the entrance, standing in small groups and talking.

John sees a few curious glances in their direction, and attempts to ignore it, because quite frankly, Sherlock's already given them more than enough to talk about already with his little… fit back there. Shaking his head, John tries to calm down just a beat.

There’s something vaguely familiar about the way Sherlock’s eyes are scrunched shut and only flutter open again, and the manner in which Sherlock doesn’t even seem to be able to formulate a cutting reply to John's questions.

When John leans closer, there’s no smell of alcohol in Sherlock’s breath, and John suddenly finds himself thinking about that one visit to the mall and the way the lights had made Sherlock tense up and avert his eyes and the way he’d--

“Hey,” John says, trying to sound calm as he sees some of the people they’d been sitting together with in the club walk out of the club to get some air.

Great. Just fucking great.

Sherlock turns his head away, but John sees the moment his face turns into a grimace, and John doesn’t quite understand what’s happening or what it is that causes his admittedly mental but usually somewhat more collected boyfriend to get like this, but whatever it is, John isn’t the one who’s most unsettled by it.

He’s still angry, but he’s no longer sure who he’s angry at.

Taking a deep breath, John places his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, and when Sherlock doesn’t flinch or tries to shake him off, John lets his thumb stroke over a ridiculously high cheekbone. His thumb continues down to the sharp angle of Sherlock’s jaw, tracing the bones beneath the cold skin before moving back up to stroke the cheek again, fingers cupping the side of Sherlock’s face that’s turned away from him, putting a bit of pressure behind it until they’re almost face to face again.

“Hey,” John says again. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Item on the checklist that’s illustrated; “ **Touching a partner affectionately in public** ”
> 
> Answer to current item - John  
>  **[X]  = Yes**  
>  [   ]  = No  
> [   ]  = Maybe  
> [   ]  = I don't know  
> [   ]  = Fantasy  
> [   ]  = Not Applicable


End file.
